The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S15E07

Episode Date: October 11, 2020

It’s Episode 07 of Season 15. Our lost highway journey takes us home to where the darkness lives. “911 Call from Another Dimension” written by Sebastian LaQroix (Story starts around 00:06:50) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Dispatcher – Alexis Bristowe, Therese – Nikolle Doolin “Click” written by Selene Grasby (Story starts around 00:17:15) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Maggie – Erin Lillis, Kevin – Mick Wingert, Dr. Wexler – Mike DelGaudio, Nurse – Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hello, I'm Atticus Jackson. At least that's what the script says. The truth is, I don't know who I am. I've lost my memories. I only have one memory, and it haunts me. In it, I'm running through a construction site. Things are falling around me. Rocks are bouncing off my head.

I'm not wearing a helmet. I crashed through a plate glass window, diving onto the street below. I run through traffic. More rocks bounce off my head. head. I dart down an alleyway, wall run over a spiked pit, clamber up a fire escape. Yet more rocks bounce off my head. Where are the rocks even coming from? I'm on a roof. I have no explanation. And then I woke up here in the hospital, with only this ad read script to guide me. But the point is, I remember that the situation I was in just before losing my memory was very unsafe. I was being

unsafe. I was an unsafe person. And you know what else is unsafe? That's right. Working with the wrong home security company. Here's the thing about home security companies. Most trap you with high prices, tricky contracts, and lousy customer support. So while there are a lot of options out there, there's only one no-brainer. SimplySafe. SimplySafe. SimplySafe has kept me safe no matter what ludicrous, bizarre, or dangerous situation I get myself in. And now I have my memory back. That's because SimplySafe are unforgetably good. SimplySafe's got everything you need to protect your home with none of the drawbacks of traditional home security. Like getting caught in your own bear traps or sliced by your own bladed pendulums.

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And I'm not the only one who thinks SimpliSafe is great. U.S. News and World Report named it the best overall home security of 2020. Someone else besides me said it, and you know you can trust it. Right now, head to Simplysafe.com slash no sleep and get a free HD camera for our listeners. That's Simplysafe.com slash no sleep to make sure they know that our show sent you. That's a free HD camera. What could be better than that? Well, peace of mind.

And with SimpliSafe, you'll have to be. it. So remember that's simplysafe.com slash no sleep. Tales or nights yourself for the no sleep podcast. 107 of the no sleep podcast. I'm David Cummings. And now it... As we're now well into the month of Halloween, I know many of you might be looking to expand your audio horror universe. For that, there are some other podcasts I want to bring to your attention so you can sample other dark delights to satisfy your not-so-sweet-tooth. The first is the well-established audio horror podcast, The Grey Rooms.

I've mentioned this show before, and if you haven't already, you should jump into this horror anthology of stories set within a single audio drama narrative. It features many familiar voices and some wonderfully dark writing. The next show is called Mail Topia. A horror and dark fiction podcast featuring interconnected series and stories set in the ever-expanding literary world of Meltopia. This one is for those of you who fancy deep, immersive literary stories with hints of science fiction and dark horror. Well worth a listen. And then we have a disturbing podcast, appropriately called Disturbed.

This show also features many familiar voices you'll recognize, as, they recount true horror stories to chill your October nights. Unsettling, unexplained, unsolved, disturbed, the true horror podcast. Links to all three podcasts are in the show notes. So there, three shows to keep you horrified this month and beyond. And speaking of October horrors, I want to mention, or remind you, that The Haunting of Bly Manor has been released on Netflix. Created by friend of the show Mike Flanagan,

and featuring a writing team which includes our very own C.K. Walker, this is a follow-up series to The Haunting of Hill House, and it has been getting some wildly positive reviews. So dive into Bly Manor and binge yourself some nightmares along the way. Oh, but wait, don't go listening to and watching those other shows quite yet. We've got our own terrifying tales for you now, so you'd best brace yourself. Now, let's begin our journey down this lost highway. In our first tale, we find ourselves on one end of a telephone call as we join a dispatcher on the job.

A call's coming in from a lady, and according to her, there are bad things going down. But in this tale, shared with us by author Sebastian, La Croy, we discover how dangerous it can be when wires get crossed. Performing this tale are Alexis Bristow and Nicole Doolin. So pick up the phone and listen closely. Pay attention to what's being described and make sure you're not on a 911 call from another dimension. The call began like any other. 911, what's your emergency?

Terese. Some things up. What is your emergency, ma'am? I came home from work today, exhausted, and took a quick nap. When I woke up, I checked the front door and it's locked. Is the lock stuck? It looks like the door is locked from the outside. It is here that I admit I screwed up. I should have asked for the address.

When someone calls 911, every second counts. For some reason, Teresa's peculiar circumstances made me completely forget about protocol. I still wonder if things would have been different had I sent an officer to her address earlier. Can you try another door? Already tried the door to my backyard. Is that one locked from the outside, too? This is wrong. Someone must have changed the locks when I was sleeping. A chilling sensation washed over my back and crawled down my arms. I made sure to conceal the unease in my voice. Terese, this might be a dumb question, but are you sure you're not? You're sure you're in your own home?

Yes, it's the same exact house. Even the doors are the same. It's just the damn locks. They're on the other side. All right, Teresa, give me your address, and I'll have an officer sent over. Anxiety began making my nose itch. Terese quickly recited her street address.

Thank you. I'm sending someone right. What the fuck? Teresa. Windows are locked, too. Like, they're bolted shut. An officer is on the way, Teresa. Stay with me. Ah!

Windows are opening. I'm locked inside my own home. Just stay relaxed, Teresa. Officer McCready will be there shortly. Teresa? Mother of God! I threw a chair at the window and not a single crack. My breathing began to mirror Teresa's.

I looked up and saw the dwindling light of the sun disappear behind the hills. I made sure to breathe through my nose and with my stomach. I had to stay calm. Teresa, Officer McCready should be there soon. I don't think she heard me. I don't have shadowproof windows. They should have shattered into a million pieces. Terese, look out your front window.

Do you recognize your surroundings? There's my Camry, the front lawn, and my pink mailbox. There's nothing. Teresa, talk to me. See something glowing down the street. It's coming closer. The tension disappeared from my shoulders. Probably Officer McCready.

Hang in there, Teresa. I got a dispatch from Officer McCready. He had just arrived at the address. Teresa, Officer McCready has just arrived. He says he's out front. I don't see anybody. Just the orange glow coming. Stay with me, Terese.

I checked with Officer McCready. He assured me he was at the right address and had begun investigating. They're people. People holding... A nod of unease had begun tightening in my stomach. I could feel my hands. hands getting wet and sticky. I warned Officer McCready of possible hostiles. He radioed back.

There wasn't anyone out front, much less an orange glow. There was no protocol for this, which made me start to panic as well. Terese, can you hide or get upstairs? Just get to safety, a closet or a bedroom where you can lock them out. Do you hear that? Terese, just get yourself locked away where nobody can get to you. I tried rebidding the call. Perhaps McCready really was at the wrong address. My heart sank as I saw where the call was coming from. It was the same address Teresa had given me. The same address officer McCready was currently investigating.

I again warned McCready, but he told me to stop screwing with him. He assured me that the house was completely empty. There was a Camry in the driveway, but the entire property was empty. My supervisor had come by. She asked if I was okay. I said I was fine, and she nodded even though I was obviously. lying. Officer McCready radioed in. He finished his investigation with nothing to report. The front door was unlocked when he came in. The house was empty. Not a single trace of

Terese. He didn't know what else to do. If not for the call, there wouldn't be any reason to be at the residence. At this point, I was completely deflated. Terese didn't sound like she was lying, and I had experienced detecting fake callers. Yet, despite everything, I managed to convince my that it was a prank. An elaborate prank to be sure, but still a prank. I wasn't ready for McCready's revelations two days after. The next day, McCready was called back to the same address. Neighbors had called in complaining of a disgusting stench that had wafted into their house. It came from the house, Teresa supposedly called from. As he tells it, he walked through the front door and was immediately assaulted by the stench of a dirty whore sucking ass through a garden hose

dipped in shit. His words. McCready didn't find the source immediately, but noticed a bulge in the wallpaper in the dining room. After equipping himself with gloves, he walked up to the wallpaper and ripped it away. He told me that the blast of noxious fumes coupled with the horrific sight nearly made him vomit. Hanging from the wall was the top half of a rotting female corpse. Strips of decaying flesh hung off the bones as blood began dripping to the floor. Perhaps more bizarrelyly bizarrely were the spider webs and clumps of moldering foliage that had held the rotting remains up against the wall. There was no bottom half. McCready said the corpse appeared to reach out as if trying to escape from the wall.

Surely enough, the remains were eventually analyzed and confirmed to belong to Therese Stedman. As terrifying as this revelation was, it wasn't the end. McCready shared one more thing with me personally, something he left out of the report. After the initial shock of the discovery, McCready noticed burn marks or etchings in the wall under the top half of the hanging remains. These markings were about the size of a dinner plate. They looked awfully similar to the bottom half of a nude female body, and they aligned perfectly under the hanging monstrosity.

Around the remains were other small markings resembling torch-wielding figures. These figures were hooded with their arms raised, as if they were all chanting. A momentary break from the horror to bring you a reminder that it's good to eat. In a world where it's dinner time and the only cure for being hungry is more food. In a time where eating gives you energy

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Just open the DoorDash app, select your favorite local restaurant, and your food will be left at your door. DoorDash deliveries are now called. contact list to keep communities we operate in safe. So when you're hungry, someone to DoorDash, the tastiest food right to your door. I use it basically every day and it's honestly a lifesaver. Right now, our listeners can get $5 off and zero delivery fees on their first order of $15 or more when you download the DoorDash app and enter code no sleep. That's $5 off and zero delivery fees on your first order when you download the DoorDash app in the app store and

enter code no sleep. So get eating with DoorDash. And don't forget that It's code no sleep for $5 off your first order with DoorDash. Now, back to the show. Witnessing a traumatic event can leave a long-lasting impression. You associate things with that moment, smells, sights, sounds. Any of these stimuli can provoke a strong reaction in you. And in this tale, shared with us by author Saline Geraspie, we meet a woman suffering from the trauma of witnessing her sister's death.

Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Mick Wingert, Mike Delgadoio, Danielle McCray, and Jessica McAvoy. So think about those events of the past and why they might be haunting you in the present. The answers will snap into place. Just listen for the click. Is that something? But I couldn't hear it. I wouldn't let myself. There was a moment, a smothered scream, and then question. I could only remember the click. Calm down. Deep breaths. Inhale and exhale. I was alone. I was in my safe place and no one could hurt me. I snapped the rubber band against my wrist, not hard, but just enough to feel it. I ran to the window and peered through the blinds. I wasn't expecting anyone today or

really any other day. What if, what if that man was outside? It isn't him. You're being ridiculous. rational brain knew that, but my nerves were on fire. From the bay window, I could see a tall man in dark pants and a maroon t-shirt standing on my porch. His back was towards me, and for an instant I thought it could be the masked man. I closed my eyes and snapped the rubberband again. The doctor said I should take something to relax before it got bad. Maggie, Maggie, I know you're in there, so come on and open the door. It's just me for God's sake. I opened my eyes and saw Kevin. My ever-dutiful ex-husband with the classic looks and physique of someone ten years younger. Even though he was retired, he always kept a hand on his belt close to his imaginary semi-automatic pistol.

He had aged well, a lot better than I had, which was why he was remarried to a woman half his age. I often wondered if he still had his wandering eyes and greedy hands. I guess it didn't bother Carla the way it bothered me. He noticed me through the crack in the blinds, and then picked up two bags of groceries, motioning for me to open the door. I pulled my silk robe tightly around my waist and debated whether I should put on lipstick.

Maggie, hurry up before the ice cream melts. I unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door just wide enough for Kevin to slide through. He rolled his eyes as he squeezed through the doorway and I rushed to lock it behind him. He brushed past me on the way to the kitchen. I can do that. I motioned for the bags,

but he held them firmly. Don't worry about it. He placed them on the island and started unloading. Now that I'm retired, I like helping out around the house. I bet you find that hard to believe. Well, Carla is a lucky woman. Don't be petty. Kevin placed a few frozen dinners in the freezer.

Those lean cuisines you like were on sale, so I got you enough for a week. You really don't have to do this. Maggie, you say that every week. Can't you see I'm not going anywhere? Stop trying to push me away and just say, thank you. He crossed his arms and cocked his head. I examined my nails and avoided his gaze, just as I had done a million times before.

I put up the facade that I thought he would budge, but he was a stubborn mule and there was nothing that could change his mind. Thank you. You're welcome. He smirked and then continued unpacking. When's your next appointment? This afternoon. Good. I was going to suggest you have a session today.

The anniversary is tomorrow. Not that I need to remind you. It's just that I was worried, is all. You know, this is a big one. I'll be all right. I've survived nine anniversaries and so I know I can survive this one. Sounds like the new counselor is working better than the last. Kevin washed a Granny Smith apple and handed it to me.

There's always a honeymoon period with each of them. We'll see if it's like. This guy went to Princeton, if that matters, which it doesn't, really. Are you still using your treadmill? Every other day, but I'm going to try and do a little more this week, get the endorphins going. I took a bite of the crisp green apple. How are you doing? Her anniversary doesn't just affect me.

Well, she wasn't my sister. She was your sister-in-law. I glanced down at the apple. The inside was littered with brown spots. Okay, okay, don't get worked up about it. Obviously, she was important to me, too. Just not in the same way. How about we do something special tomorrow to commemorate her?

Maybe get in touch with some of her old friends and see if they want to get together and share stories? I glared at him. I'm just trying to help. You've done enough. Bringing groceries every week and helping me set up online access to my accounts, taking care of the landscaping, And shoveling the snow, I really am grateful for everything.

But I want to spend tomorrow in my house by myself where I know I'm safe. Maggie, the outside world can be safe too. Remember we used to spend a lot of time out there? It's not such a bad place. As usual, I have enjoyed our little visit, but shouldn't you be on your way? He noticed his gold wristwatch and sighed. I guess I should get going. The time's getting on.

Time. Time. Time. It played in my head like a loop, each word pounding harder against my skull until I felt lightheaded and needed to lie down. Helen's voice was calling through the fog of my muddled brain and I couldn't silence her.

I raced to the cabinet and pulled out my pills, taking one out and throwing it to the back of my throat. I snapped the elastic a few times and then took a deep breath. Are you okay? I can stay a while. No, please just go. I need to lie down. Tomorrow.

I'll come back tomorrow just to check on you, make sure you're okay. Kevin. Don't argue with me. I'll see you tomorrow. He nodded and then walked out of the house. Good afternoon, Maggie. Dr. Wexler's large round glasses appeared on my computer screen. I sat back in my desk chair.

Hello. How are you feeling today? I had a moment earlier today. Three moments, really. A few flashbacks. Did you take your medication? Yes. Did it help?

Yes, it did. Excellent. Did you try any grounding techniques? Yes, I used the elastic band. I held up my wrist. It helped too. I'm impressed. You're really learning to control your symptoms.

Was your ex-husband there when they occurred? I know what you're going to say, and I told him that he needs to stop helping. I said it more than once. You've told him this before on more than one occasion. And yet, do you expect a different outcome? I know that I want to lose weight, but I also love a chocolate-glazed donut in the morning with my coffee. If I keep telling myself I need to lose weight, but I also keep eating donuts, do you think anything's going to change?

You don't need to lose weight. That's not the point. I know, I know. I've had enough therapy to know better. You want me to show him that I don't need his help instead of asking. I turned and gazed at the white, fluffy clouds through the back window. I opened the curtains today. Excellent progress.

Now, how about we try what we talked about last week? Maybe crack a window and let some fresh air in the house? I can stay online with you the whole time. I know. I've been thinking about it a lot. lot lately, and I do want to try. I'm just worried that it's going to happen again. It seems to happen every time. You've got better control of your reactions and emotions. The only way to leave that house one day is by conquering your fears, one step at a time. I know you're right. I'm willing to try

again. All right. When you're ready, I want you to stand up and walk over to the window. I swiveled my chair to the window and pressed my lips together. I twisted the rubber band around my wrist and inhaled deeply. The first step, I just needed to take one step, and then the rest would follow, easier than the one before it. I knew I'd have to try this one day, and I suppose today was as good as any other. I stood up. I stepped towards the window. My eyes closed. You're doing great, Maggie. I'm right here with you. I took another few steps with my hands outstretched until my fingertips touched warm, dusty glass.

My hands were trembling as I felt my way to the latch and then the side of the window. I was almost there. I had my fingers on the ledge and I was ready to pull it open. Now open it. I heard a grinding noise as the window budged open and then a warm breeze blew against my face. It was hot out today, and for the first time in a long time, I remembered what it felt like to sit outside with a cold glass of lemonade and bask in the sunlight.

The air smelled like flowers and freshly cut grass, and I listened to the buzzing of my neighbor's lawnmower. What do you see? I opened my eyes and stared up at the clouds drifting lazily in the sky. Birds flew back and forth between the tops of the trees. calling to each other and flying through the air in some sort of ordered chaos. My gaze drifted down when I caught sight of her. My heart leapt up in my throat and I couldn't breathe. Her face was pale, and her long, stringy hair and hung limply off her head.

There was bruising all around her neck that trailed down her chest past her torn and stained blue dress. She's there. She's there again. Helen was staring at me through cloudy and faded blue eyes. Dr. Wexler, she's down there. I couldn't turn away. Helen was holding me there against my will. What do I do? Helen opened her mouth, and my head pounded with a loud clicking noise

that set me reeling across the room. I turned and saw Dr. Wexler's frozen face on my computer screen. I forced myself up and dragged myself across the carpet to the window. I was in a full sweat as I reached my hand up and pulled the window closed with my last ounce of strength. I sat panting against the wall, snapping the elastic band against my wrist and trying to slow my breathing. Maggie, are you okay? My computer froze and I couldn't see what happened. I was sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn't stop it. It was happening all over again. I started to wretch up bile right onto the carpet.

Why couldn't she just leave me the hell alone? Was she there? Maggie, please answer me. Do you want me to call an ambulance? I can't do this anymore. I woke up the next morning. My head's still full of ghosts and swallowed a pill. Dr. Wexler was coming by this morning to check on me.

I begged him not to, but he insisted after I finally settled from the incident. It was all I could do to stop him from calling EMS. I rolled out of bed and forced myself to shower and dress like most people do. I figured I should try to give the outward appearance that I was trying. I would never feel right on the inside. I knew that now, but at least I could look like it. Dr. Wexler knocked on the door as I was pouring coffee. Last night I told him I would leave it unlocked ten minutes before he arrived

so I wouldn't have to come close to the outdoors. I heard him enter the house, but he didn't lock it behind him like we had agreed. I poured an extra mug and turned to hand it to him when I saw Kevin. I placed the cup back on the counter. I wasn't expecting you. Who were you expecting? He had his hands on his belt and that traditional stance I grew to loathe. Kevin, I told you not to come today.

And I told you that I was coming whether you like it or not. It's for your own good. On today of all days, you shouldn't be alone. He glanced down at the steaming mug. So, who's that cup of coffee for? It's really none of your business, Kevin. Please, just go. The big ape bawled up his fists and puffed out his chest

before ripping out a flash of silver from his pocket. A vein bulged in his neck as he swung it in the air. And I fell back against the kitchen counter. It hurt just to look at it. I had this made for you so you could always remember her, so you could move on. So here you go, you ungrateful cow. He threw the watch at me, and I let it drop to the floor, the glass cracking across the face before it rolled over,

revealing the inscription on the back. To Helen, love always, Maggie. I don't want this here. I race to the cupboard and drop my pills on the kids. counter. Get it out of here now. Hello? Is everything okay? Dr. Wexler walked into the kitchen with his briefcase in hand. He was a lot shorter and stockier than I imagined. He surveyed the scene for a minute as the air started to fill up the room and I could breathe again. Ah, you must be Kevin. It's nice to finally meet you. Same to you, Dr. Wexler. Do you mind if I have a quick word outside?

With all due respect, Kevin, you're not my patient. And I have to be back at the office in one hour. Perhaps we can talk another day. Dr. Wexler's calm demeanor brought life back into the house. Sure. Kevin trudged to the door. Happy anniversary! He slammed the door behind him. I think I got here at the right time.

Time, time, time. My eyes drifted towards the pocket watch, and I saw the masked man in front of me. He was right there, standing where Dr. Wexler had been a moment ago. His back was to me and he pointed to the window, and suddenly I was back, back to that horrible night. I walked from my bed to the window facing the backyard and saw her there. She was young again, in her blue dress, beautiful as ever and holding the watch in her hand. I could see it glimmering in the moonlight. She turned and waved at me and I waved back.

She checked her watch and closed it. She said something then and made to walk inside. when the masked man came up behind her. I watched as he grabbed her by the throat and squeezed the life out of her. Her eyes bulged out of her head and her face turned purple. Once she was on the ground,

I fell back onto the bed. Stop it, stop it, please. Please stop and leave me alone. Haven't you done enough? Maggie, Maggie, you're safe. Dr. Wexler was sitting next to me on the floor. I'm sorry. But this is for your own good.

He held his phone up to his ear. Please send an ambulance to 15 Dearborn Crescent. I opened my eyes and brushed a few blonde hairs off my face. A hospital ID band bearing my name hung off my wrist. I was tucked under a white flannel in a hospital bed with the four rails up. Across from the bed were a wall-sized mirror and a door that was slightly ajar. I could hear two voices on the other side. One I recognized as Dr. Wexler's, and the other was younger and female.

Are you keeping her here on a farm? Well, at this point, I believe she could be a harm to herself, and so, yes, at least for the next 48 hours. Maggie hasn't left her house in ten years, and so I need you to keep a close eye on her. Everything is going to be unfamiliar and scary to her. Ten years? How was she survived? With help from her ex-husband, he will likely try to visit her here at some point and will want to speak with us. Let me remind you that since he is her ex-husband, we will not be sharing any of our medical diagnoses or treatments with him. He's also a retired cop, so don't let his authoritative attitude sway you.

Of course. So what is the official diagnosis? Agoraphobia? She doesn't present with typical agoraphobia. It's related to post-traumatic stress disorder. Whenever she attempts to leave the house, she sees her sister's dead body in the yard. Maggie's only been my patient for a few months,

and so what I've learned so far, I've gathered from what she's told me and public records. The story goes that Maggie was home asleep one night when she heard a noise that woke her. Her husband was working the night shift, and so she was home alone. It was a hot summer's night, and the windows were wide open,

so she could hear the noises from the yard. She went to the window and saw her sister Helen outside talking to a man in a balaclava, which frightened her, so she hid out of sight. Helen checked the time on her pocket watch. Time. Time. Time. Her sister then said something that Maggie either couldn't hear or blocked from memory.

And then Helen turned away from the masked man and began walking to the house. The man grabbed her from behind and strangled her to death. Maggie watched the whole thing. My, that poor soul. Maggie ran to the telephone and called the police, but by the time she returned to the window, both her sister and the man were gone. Helen's body was never found, and the killer has never been identified. If I were her, I might never leave the house either.

So what was the trigger for this admission, seeing her dead sister? No, actually. It was a pocket watch that her ex-husband brought her. What kind of sick bastard would do that? Dr. Wexler's eye peered through the doorway, and I pretended to sleep, hoping he wouldn't see me. Let's continue this chat in my office. I think our patient is waking up. Later this afternoon, when we do our rounds, I'll introduce you.

She is a very interesting case study. I stared up at the ceiling. When your life is condensed into a short paragraph, it doesn't feel like yours anymore. It felt like listening to my obituary. Was I really the lady who stayed in her house for ten years? Is that how I would be remembered? I stared up at the ceiling for a while until I gave in to boredom and dozed off again. Kevin appeared.

His face halfway through the doorway. He cowered in the doorway like a wounded animal, and I can't say I felt an ounce of sympathy. I wished I hadn't opened my eyes. How are you? I know this is the last. place you want to be. They're taking good care of me, and I haven't had any flashbacks, so I'm okay. Well, that's good then. He came and stood at the edge of my bed. Listen, I'm so sorry. I never should have brought you that pocket watch. It was a mistake,

and I feel like a complete moron. I don't know why I thought it would help. To be honest, I don't even remember buying it. I really don't know what came over me. I never told you about the pocket watch, Kevin. I don't even know how you heard about it. It must have been in the news, or the case files at the precinct. The police never found her watch, and I didn't tell anyone about the inscription. And yet, there it was on the back, like the handwritten note of a killer. I sat myself up in bed and glared at him.

What are you trying to say? He suddenly had an odd expression. Then he pulled a silver pocket watch from his pants and dangled it in the air. Why the hell would you bring that here? I didn't. I swear. He flung it down to the ground. Think about it. It was at your house when I left. I had my finger on the bell, ready to call for the nurse,

but suddenly became totally paralyzed in fear. There she was, standing behind him. corner of the hospital room, her cloudy blue eyes fixed on the back of Kevin's head. Kevin pulled out his hand from his other pocket, and a clump of long, blonde hairs came with it. How is this happening? He threw the bloody hair on the ground. It's impossible. It can't be real.

Kevin, what did you do? Tell me what you did to her! I know how this might seem, Maggie. I had to stop her. That's why I did what I did. I wanted to tell you so many times. It was you. How could you have done something like that?

To my own sister. He clutched his throat. It was her. I'm not a murderer. He swallowed hard. Helen and I were seeing each other off and on over the years, and no matter how many times I tried to end it, she would always manipulate me back into her life.

The night she died, she had made a plan for us to get rid of you. Helen wanted me all to herself, and I wouldn't let her do it, Maggie. I knew they had to stop her somehow. His face was turning bright, red, and he seemed like he might explode. Appled at invisible hands and eventually collapsed on the floor. My gaze shifted to Helen in the corner of the room. She hadn't moved. However, she had a slight smirk on her face. At the side of Kevin's lifeless body, Helen turned her head just slightly to meet my eyes. In a flash, she was beside my bed, holding the pocket watch over my face. It turned on its chain to reveal the inscription and looked just as polished as the day I bought it for her. I coward under the blankets as Helen snapped the pocket watch closed. Time. always that one home on the block, you know the one. The neighborhood kids avoid it,

you avoid it. There's just something about it. It's creepy. But in this tale, shared with us by author Chris Curiata, we meet a man who lives directly adjacent to such a property, and new owners are moving in. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett, Mary Murphy, Dan Zippula, Jessica McAvoy and Ellie Hirschman. So keep your distance, but keep your neighbors close. You don't want anyone to be affected by the house next door to me. I've never set foot inside the house next door, but Marcy has. Seeing the U-Hauls and the new family settling in excited her.

I did my best to keep close watch, but the moment I dozed off for a nap, Marcy loaded a plate with cookies and scampered over to welcome them to the neighborhood. Obviously, the house sold cheap after that bad business a few years back. Some people pride themselves on not being superstitious. Me? I pride myself on looking out for your loved ones. When Marcy and I first met, there was still foreign soil on my uniform. She burnt me four children, three that lived. She slept beside me every night for 45 years.

Years, minus two nights I visited my asshole brother Dwayne on his deathbed. I knew every inch of that woman. Even the parts I would have preferred to keep mysterious. So believe me, I'd know immediately if the person who came back from next door was my Marsi or not. The shotgun, dead asshole Dwayne left me, attached to an avalanche of invasive paperwork, sat on the couch. Two shots. One for Marsi and one for me, so I wouldn't have to suffer. for a lot of foolish questions before being hauled off the prison.

The front door creaked open. Lloyd, are you sitting in the dark? My eyes stung when Marcy hit the light switch with the edge of her empty cookie platter. I hadn't realized the sky turned so dark. She'd been gone a long time. Marcy went into the kitchen to rinse the plate. They put on coffee. We got to chatting.

Nice people. She came into the living room and frowned at the gun. Marcy hated seeing reminders of Dwayne, who treated her in ways a brother-in-law never should. What you doing with that thing? I had my finger on the trigger, the butt braced against my shoulder. Just keeping her in shape. Marcy plopped beside me,

pulling her swollen feet from her flip-flops and resting them on the coffee table before picking up the clicker and tuning in 60 minutes. You ought to break that thing apart, and bury it in the yard. Your days of shooting are long over. Thank you, Lord. I don't know why you're tempting accidents.

I nodded like a good husband before giving her a wet peck on the cheek and shuffling into the kitchen to fetch her a Coke. After 45 years of marriage, I knew the woman on the couch was my marsy, even before she rubbed between her toes and smelled her finger when she thought I wasn't looking. I was so happy to see her back,

I said, God damn, to the can and served her coke in a glass with ice. She leaned into me. Someone's anxious for favors. That night we got friendly between the sheets. Dead asshole Dwayne's shotgun lay beneath us, still loaded. Marcy may have come back fine, but I never knew when trouble might brew up again

from the house next door, needing me to put Dwayne's inheritance to use. Some months later, the man from next door paid a visit. He hadn't changed out of his work shirt yet. A white button up. The breast pocket crammed full of pens. I pictured him hunched over a drafting table, using a protractor to make calculations for the space program or some deal.

He had one of those cushy thinking jobs, nothing physical. Yet he came home wearing a shirt soaked through with sweat. It wasn't until he stood on my porch that it occurred to me. His job might not be the problem stressing him out. How are doing's over there? He threw a look over his shoulder, embarrassed by his unraked lawn. I kept our yard immaculate. Stray leaves kept blowing from the battlefield on his lawn,

but I swept them up efficiently without complaint. No need to make a federal case out of it. I understood the man's got a job and isn't available to keep on top of his property with the same rigor or retiree like me's got. I'm worried about the tree between our houses. Those branches might fall if we get too much ice this winter. I stepped outside, pretending to look at the tree. But really, I kept watch on that house of his.

Everything looked nice and calm. The fresh white paint along the walls hadn't cracked yet. But I saw the kitchen curtains, Russell. Something was peeking out at us. Yeah, it might do good to take a few of those branches down. One of the tree's dead, discolored arms hung directly over the neighbor's driveway. He would put a hell of a dent in the car hood if it ever fell. Pop the headlights, too.

The front door opened, and the wife stepped out, looking none too happy to see her husband and me together. The coldness of her suspicious gaze had me questioning if that truly was his wife anymore. Let me get the ladder out. Move your car, and I'll cut that sucker down. Oh, no, no, it's over my property. I'll do it if you want to let me your chainsaw.

I peered into his eyes to get an idea of where. he was coming from. Did he want to cut down the tree branch himself because he was tired of his candy-ass job and wanted to feel the vibrations of heavy machinery in his soft hands? If he was looking for the satisfaction that came from completing the physical task, the crack of the branch, the whip of sawdust against his wrists, he could take my chainsaw. However, if he insisted on doing the job himself because he thought me some daughter and old man who made him nervous to see on top of a ladder, Well, then he could go out and buy his own damn saw. Assuming, of course, he wanted the chainsaw for the tree at all.

In the garage. I swallowed the last of my millers and dropped the can into the recycling bin, then motioned for the neighbor to follow. I'd fix him right up. Aren't you called? The wife called from the edge of their leaf-strewn lawn, where she stood with her arms wrapped around herself. The judgment in her voice couldn't be clearer.

The insinuation. You need to put something on and make yourself decent. I'd been nice and warm in the privacy of my own home before a husband dragged me out. Excuse me if I wasn't dressed for their convenience. My bare feet slapped the pavement as I waddled to the garage. Along the way, I stepped on something sharp, a piece of metal that bit into the bottom of my foot. The pain stayed in my throat. I didn't cry out, denying that woman the opportunity to nod and call. I told you to put something on. I lifted the garage door and jerked the light cord in the ceiling. My chainsaw sat on the workbench, well taken care of. Once I gassed her up, she'd be ready to go. Now, thanks a bunch, Lloyd. The chainsaw looked awkward in the neighbor man's grasp, like I'd handed it to an

eight-year-old. I grabbed another millers from the garage fridge. Bring that back in one piece and I'll have a beer for you. I took a sip. The wife frowned. She didn't want her husband making friends so close to home, especially not friends with well-stocked fridges. She was the sort of woman who believed home life was strictly family life. Friends belonged at work, out of sight, inaccessible once the sun went down. As I closed up the garage, I saw the curtains next door move again, confirming my suspicion of who was peeking out at us. Sure that's the right tool for the job? The neighbor didn't reply, just lugged my saw home.

I lingered outside, sipping my beer, waiting for the sound of the chainsaw firing up. It's healthy motor muted by the walls of the house next door. Instead, the neighbor returned, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, some goofy-looking swimming goggles dangling from around his neck. He pulled his car out of the driveway, given space for the branch to drop. Seeing as he intended to use the chainsaw on the tree after all, and not for whatever problems were brewing inside his house, I closed up the garage and returned to my couch for a good nap, happily anticipating the sound of my saw sinking into the tree,

filling the neighborhood with the music of physical labor. A clanging noise interrupted the steady buzzing of my chainsaw, like some fool banged the running blade with a hammer. Oh, Christ! The blinds were shut to keep things private, blocking my sideline view of the neighbor's yard. I almost didn't want to see what he'd done to my chainsaw, likely damaging it. He'd apologized profusely, offered to buy me a new one, but that wasn't the damn point. When I opened the front door, the neighbor came staggering towards me.

His hand clutched to his throat like he was begging for air. Over his shoulder, I saw the entire setup. The toppled ladder, the chainsaw crashed onto the asphalt, and two tiny figures scampering back into his house. Blood poured from a wide slit across the neighbor's neck. A thick, steady line of blood like I hadn't seen since I was in uniform. It didn't spurt, so I figured he still had a chance. I always keep spare keys in the truck,

which saved me time fetching my main key ring. Those seconds could save the neighbor's life. I grabbed him round the waist and helped him through the passenger door. There was no time to tell his wife she would have to put the pieces together on her own. During the drive to the hospital, I grabbed the neighbor by the top of his head

and bat him forward. Blood drummed against the floorboards and the neighbor gasped, drawing in air. Blood's pouring down your throat. When it fills up, you gotta lean over and let it drain out, otherwise you'll suffocate. At the hospital, the doctors dropped their profession, armor at first sight of the neighbor. They look terrified. After he survived, the doctors all

yacked to the newspaper, saying it was a miracle. When the neighbor fell, he landed on the still running chainsaw, which cut all the way through his windpipe. The only thing keeping his head on were his spine and tendons. According to one of the doctors, that he managed to survive long enough to walk to his neighbors and drive to the hospital is nothing short of remarkable. Someone could sustain that same injury in the hospital parking lot and wouldn't live, which I thought was a stupid thing to say. I mean, when is someone going to half cut off the head in the hospital parking lot? The emergency nurse asked if I wanted some coffee. She sounded real reverential, like I was the Pope for some deal. I noticed for the first time my hands were shaking.

I hadn't had that much adrenaline poisoning in my blood since the jungle. Tell you the truth, honey, I could use a belt of something stronger. One of the orderlies, still wearing the neighbor's blood all over his smock, called out to her. Check Dr. Birchett's office. This man deserves it. Turns out I was a hero. And when you're a hero, hospital nurses will bring you a shot of rum, poured into a coffee mug to be real discreet. Next, they rustled up some sandals and a... shirt for me, which I didn't put on. I wanted to stay barefoot in my jockeys until the neighbor's

wife arrived. When she saw I was the one who delivered her husband and his nearly severed head to the hospital in the nick of time, I wanted to ask, I still think I ought to put something on? The noises start a little after midnight. Metallic bangs, someone rooting around inside my truck. Dead asshole Dwayne's shotgun lay under the bed. I didn't bother putting on slippers or even my drawers. The shotgun was all I needed to wear. The interior truck light shined yellow like an artificial sun. It was a dirty light, the kind you could go blind staring into too long. The intruders inside my truck bounced around, shaking the body like a couple of horny high school kids occupy in the back. They made chattering noises like raccoons. Big raccoons. Next door, the window

to the children's bedroom hung wide open. Well, mom sobbed herself to sleep, worried about her injured husband, that two young boys must have slipped down the side of the wall, likely crawling head first. Inside the truck, the boy sensed my presence. They were hunched over, shoulders pressed together. When the large, round heads passed into the yellow light,

their eyes gleamed like a cobra trying to hypnotize you. I'd never stood so close to the enemy before. Nighttime had changed them. Their heads swelled about a quarter larger than they should have been. Nearly all the boy's hair dropped off, except for a little bow-shaped patch atop their greasy, naked skulls. Everything about their shape and size was freakish,

like flesh-and-blood versions of the Charlie Brown kid from the comics, only with poignant noses and sharper teeth. My training told me to back away, Keep the shotgun aimed, but prepared only to fire if the little ghouls came after me. Understand, there are some places you're well within your rights to blast away anyone creeping on your property in the middle of the night. But I hadn't pitched my tent in such a freedom-loving town. I couldn't risk shooting the neighbor's boys. For all I knew, they'd lose their monstrosities in death, shaping back in the normal-looking children,

and I'd have a whole lot of questions to answer. questions that wouldn't be asked nice, if you know what I mean. Maybe if I shot them having broken into my house, I might escape jail, but not outside in the driveway, when the law would argue I wasn't acting in self-defense. Once the neighbor's boys realized that wasn't a threat, they resumed what they've been doing, lowering their heads to suck their father's congealed blood from the truck floorboards. Their tongues bristled against the rough rug, sounding like tiny zippers.

It made me wretch to watch them, but I couldn't look away. Marcy got lonely in bed and woke up to find me in the kitchen. Cana Millers in hand, staring out the window at my yellow truck light, shining like the rising moon. I may have looked like I was using that light to make a wish. It's breezy in here. What's going on? Big raccoons.

She looked at dead asshole Dwayne's shotgun resting below my bare belly, and for a moment she considered taking it away from me. Forty-five years of marriage lets you read minds on occasion. I clenched my teeth. Marcy knew to leave me be, and she went back to bed, leaving me in the shotgun to our post. I felt hopeful when the truck light went out.

The boy slammed the door and scampered across the driveway on all fours, looking little different from big raccoons. I'd left my kitchen door open, but the boys didn't take the bait. The little monsters seemed to know better than they forced their way into my house, onto my territory, where I'd have more freedom to gun them down. I was disappointed at first, but then I decided you couldn't ask much more than that for your home to be safe ground. After the hospital, I'd filled the back of my truck with supplies. A couple red cans of gasoline, some wedges to keep the doors secured tight. My plans changed.

Tomorrow I'd take the red cans to the garage. They'd be good for the mower all next year. As long as the neighbor's boys intended on leaving our house alone, I had no business messing around with theirs. I'd leave any correction of them to their parents. After a harsh winter, basement pipes froze, truck engine died. Spring arrived. Once the ice between our pathways melted, the neighbor man came knocking again.

I'd been in the garage, moving salt bags and sweeping up grit and stones when he presented me with my chainsaw. She'd been forgotten in all the excitement. The blade had been cleaned off. Hard to believe the jagged teeth and cold steel had kissed the inside of his neck. Much appreciated. The neighbor man raised a black box to his jagged, scarred throat. Dead asshole Dwayne spoke his last words with the aid of one of those little devices. The neighbor man, Mr. Miracle, as the doctors like to call him, should have been able to speak fine after his sewn together windpipe healed, only there'd been a complication.

Sawdust got trapped in the wound and ended up causing an infection. Wasn't that something? Man survives nearly cutting his own head off only to lose his voice to some sawdust. I didn't figure you needed me coming by the hospital. The neighbor man held up a hand. You know what the holidays are like. We all get busy. The neighbor man checked over his shoulder before stepping behind the garage door like he was some woman I was having an affair with, ducking out of sight so none of the neighbors saw us together.

Behind him, I saw the kitchen curtains move. The smell of decayed flesh clung to the neighbor, bacteria pouring out of the wound in his neck. He needed that cleaned immediately. I'd seen the horrifying progression of dead flesh on a living body in the jungle. I fully expected this smell to trigger old ghosts later that night when I fell asleep. The neighbor put the black box into his pocket and tapped his lips. I understood the gesture. In dead asshole Dwayne's final hours, he hadn't the strength to lift his box through his neck,

but he still had things to say. I sat on the edge of his bed, just like mother used to when the pair of us needed cold compresses on our chest and read his lips. I understood most of what Dwayne had to say. There was no fucking apology. I knew that for a fact. The neighbor moved his lift slowly. You're scared to come inside my house. I nodded.

There's no shame in admitting fear. Not wanting to talk about the scary times isn't the same as pretending they never happened. I've lived here 15 years. It was all I could say, thinking that ought to explain everything. A person learns all. lot in 15 years. Which rain seasons will flood your basement, which branches will come down during

a storm. But most of all, you learned to mind your own business. When the rotten house's previous owner came over to borrow my hatchet, he asked why I didn't warn him. There's no sense telling people things they won't understand. People need to learn in their own time. You never would have believed. None of them ever did. So I gave up trying to look out for anyone besides Marcy and me. me. The neighbor grabbed the back of my head and pulled me close. For a moment, I felt like the V-Day nurse in that famous picture my daddy clipped out a Life magazine and posted on his garage wall. Instead of kissing me, the neighbor man signaled with his mouth, are those my children? That's a question I've heard before, and it always makes me sad, because it's a question

full of hope. What he meant was, have my children been replaced? If he chopped the heads off those wicked bastards wearing the skin of his two boys, would their severed necks be packed full of cotton or robot parts? He dreamed a defeat in the snigger and drooling ghouls that had been tormenting him and his wife since last fall and finding his true children hidden away somewhere, in the walls maybe. He'd set his boys free from the prison their impostors stuffed them in.

The good sons would wrap their arms around daddy and they'd resume being a happy family. My heart broke, telling him we'd gone past the point of no return. The house hadn't switched his boys. The evil inside had changed them. Those are your boys. I snuck a peek outside and saw the kitchen curtains hanging straight. The two boys weren't watching us anymore.

They didn't need to. They knew what we were talking about. The smell of decayed flesh grew stronger. Coming not just from his neck, but his clothes. and his hair. He reeked of the dead, as though he lay down each night to sleep beside it. I tried to recall the last time I saw his wife. She'd been a regular fixture in their windows, always looking out into the distance as if for some cavalry she thought might arrive if they kept their smoke signal strong. Even Marcy remarked on not seeing the wife lately, said she might

visit to check, and I squeezed her wrist until it bruised, telling her to stay put. The people next door didn't want to bothering them when they needed time to heal. I'm so thankful to have done that, even though Macy shrank from me, afraid I'd put my hands on her again. I already had a good idea what that was. We didn't say goodbye or shake hands. I watched him trudge home, carrying the two red cans of gasoline. They looked heavy for him, like the strain might break the wound on his neck wide open, but he made it into the house. An hour later, when smoke filled the air, and orange light danced in our window. I kept Marcy from calling the fire department.

I made sure the house burned as a good neighbor would. I didn't grab Marcy Ruff, leaving more bruises. This time, I wrapped her in my arms and stifled her panic cries with my lips. Kissing her just like the picture of the nurse and the sailor, my daddy kept hanging on the wall of his garage until the day he died. Thank you for joining us on our journey down the lost. Highway. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikalski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. I'm your host and executive

producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 2499. On behalf of

everyone at the No Sleep podcast, we thank you for listening. As the darkness phase, it feels like your going to as copyright 2020 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

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